Archive of Our Own

Surrealism held him in place as he watched himself kill people. There was a cruel twist to his mouth, an impassive boredom to his gaze; his eyes only lit up when presented with the opportunity to enjoy torturing and maiming and slaughtering.

He wore a white suit. Occasionally, a messy death sprayed it with crimson, only for him to breathe and look pristine once again. The size was different—his chest was broader, muscles more defined. Was this the future? Another dream heralding what would come to pass?

Jess died again. He met her eyes as a force pressed her back to the ceiling, a red streak across her stomach, an expression of horror and pain and disbelief on her face, because what could do this, how could this have happened? Then the flames. She burned and he could do nothing.

That had been a recurring nightmare before it became reality. Were these images of him going to turn into truth, or could he change his fate?

White Suit was back, tending a rose bush, lost in the simplicity of the moment. It was hard to tell which version of him had noticed Dean first. Sam's eyes gravitated to his brother, approaching slowly and silently through the trees. Stop me, Dean. Don't let me continue like this.

"I was wondering when you'd show up." White Suit greeted him, back still turned. Fear was plain on Dean's face as he tried to aim and pull the trigger, knowing he'd been caught. Sam barely took stock of the strange gun—that one's new—before it flew from Dean's hand with barely a flick of White Suit's fingers.

The hand stretched out and Dean was yanked forwards until Sam watched his own hand squeezing Dean's neck. White Suit tossed Dean to the ground and pressed a polished shoe to the pulse of Dean's jugular.

"I'm sorry, Sammy."

White Suit pressed down and Sam awoke with the sound of Dean's neck snapping ringing in his ears.

He couldn't ignore this dream like he'd ignored the dreams about Jess. If this was what was coming, if he ended up so wrong and twisted, then he had to stop it. He stumbled about the room, fumbling around, but then his eyes finally landed on Dean's weapons. If he could find a knife, he could prevent himself from ever becoming that foul thing that killed his brother.

His hands grasped a handle of a Bowie knife and he breathed in deeply, closing his eyes against the unfamiliar sights around him, shutting out the rest of the world as he made his final prayer.

I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to fight the evil inside. I'm sorry I couldn't be the good little brother you deserved. But I had to get away from it. It's just now I know I can't ever run far enough. I am not going to kill you.

An angry voice broke through and strong fingers wormed their way into grabbing the knife. Sam heard the clatter against the floor. "No, Dean. You have to let me. I can't… I won't be responsible for killing you."

Dean's silence pierced through Sam in a way his rage or disappointment never could. Sam opened his eyes to take in his brother's expression. He prepared himself to face disdain or disgust, but what he was met with was a raw openness—hope and love and all that God's countenance was supposed to bestow upon his faithful—but it didn't come from God. Dean had, once again, been his salvation.

Sam blinked and kept his head down, trying to squash the urge to break down. Dean's hands were on his face, pushing his hair away like he did after Sam got injured. Like Dean can't begin to decompress until he's checked over Sam's well-being.

"You asked me what I hadn't told you when we were working the Bloody Mary case. Several weeks before… before Jess… died, I'd had recurring dreams, dreams that happened, down to the last detail. I saw Jess burning on the ceiling.

"I kept telling myself that it was just my brain… conflating my feelings about Jess as the woman I wanted to be my wife, the mother of my children, with the way Dad had told us our mom died. But when Jess burned… I realized that if I had just… told her about me, that she would have known to run away, that she could have been spared getting too close to the life.

"But it's not this life, Dean, it's me. I'm the one cursed. The dream I had, just now, I was wearing a white suit, I was older, I think, but I was… evil, beyond evil. I killed you, Dean. I can't watch that dream again, and I can't let myself grow into that thing."

"Sammy, what year is it?"

"What?" That was nowhere close to any response Sam would thought Dean would given. Then again, Dean's voice was deeper; he was gruffer, didn't keep himself clean-shaven. Sam didn't think he was going to enjoy finding out the reason Dean asked him that question. "It's 2006."

"No. It's not. It's 2014."

Wh—? Eight years? Sam tried to breathe through the shock but his brother pulled him into a hug tight enough that Sam would have happily never breathed again for as long as Dean needed to stay like this.

He was gone already. Something had happened and Dean had already lost him once. Sam hugged Dean back, the scent of Dean's musk slipping gently past his defenses. No one could replace or replicate that heady aroma. Not a shifter, not an illusion.

"I'm not going to ask when I died and I'm not going to ask why I'm here. But I would rather die than kill you."

"That's not you in there, Sammy."

"What? Wait…" Sam and Dean pulled back from each other and Sam could see Dean try to explain. But… the way Dean looked, that military flair to him… that's the way he looked in the dream. Which means he hadn't lost his brother, not really, but if it wasn't him… "If I'm possessed, then why haven't you exorcised me… or—"

"'Cause that's not just any random demon inside you, Sam. It's the Head Honcho. The archangel… Lucifer. In the flesh. Well, your flesh."

"Angels?" Sam felt joy and hope flood through him, fleeting though they were as fear and desolation replaced the exuberant emotions. If angels were real, if God was real, then why couldn't he have been saved? Why would they abandon him to the Devil, let him kill his own brother? Were the forces of darkness actually stronger, or was it that the good he had faith in no longer cared?

Sam let Dean get up and pace, stayed seated on the floor while Dean explained the world he was in. He and Sam had had a falling out, Sam had let the Devil possess him, and Lucifer had kicked the shit of whatever poor bastard Michael had chosen since Dean sure as shit hadn't stepped up. No matter that Dean had tried changing his mind; it had probably been too late and Michael couldn't reach him. Surprise! The two of them were ordained vessels for the junk-less douches. Without Dean, perhaps Michael hadn't been as strong as he should have.

"Dean, this isn't your fault. I know you. You've probably spent this whole time wishing you could have done something different, but then you wouldn't be here. If the apocalypse is over, and Lucifer hasn't let me… the other me… go, then chances are high Michael would still be possessing you or you would be dead and he'd be walking around in your skin like Lucifer is walking around in mine." Sam saw the way Dean's eyebrows rose in a silent concession. "Do you think I'm still in there somewhere or do you think I'm actually gone?"

Sam waited, watched, as Dean just stared at him. He hadn't mentioned how long ago the falling out had been. Had it been a few years or almost a decade? Sam knew he had a tendency to dip when things got too much—the times he'd run away, or celebrated a holiday with a normal family, Stanford, hitchhiking to get away from Dean's rules. Sure, he'd been dragged back or come back of his own volition every time, none too soon on that last one.

Scarecrows, he thought with a mental shiver. Had it really only been a few weeks since he'd been back with Dean? He couldn't fathom the rubber band stretching like it had, not once they'd finally set some ground rules in the car ride away from Burkesville. But who could say what argument would have made him leave again? Dean took up a lot of space, only now, Sam was catching up. The trunk of the Impala might be able to hold an arsenal and a dead body, but the cabin could barely fit their sleeping forms, much less the egos attached.

"I don't know, Sammy."

Don't know? If Lucifer's walking around without Sam as a stowaway; right. Without answers to… well, anything… Sam was eager to find a computer and start researching. Wait… apocalypse. Old school, then. "Where can I start digging through lore?"

"Lore? We know what we're up against. Lucifer."

"No." Sam smiled at Dean's laser-focus, glad he had something familiar in this strange new world. "I meant me… here… in the future."

"Oh. Right. Uh… a few of Bobby's things might be around here, some might be at Cas' place."

"Who's Cas?"

"Castiel. I forget how much I need to fill you in. He's an angel… or was, before heaven apparently cut their power off, so now he pretty much drinks and gets high and gets laid."

"Sounds like he took his cues from you."

"Someone should have. Prude."

Sam shouldn't have felt a need to defend his forays into youthful mistakes. "There were a few post-exam celebrations that first year of college."

Dean looked like Christmas had come early. "Really. So you…"

Sam wasn't sure who to be embarrassed for when Dean mimed taking a hit from a roach. "A time or two. It was probably just oregano, though. I barely felt anything."

"I don't know whether to be proud of you or make fun of you."

A beat. It was a nice reminder for Sam, seeing Dean at ease like that; if his existence was just to lighten the burden his brother carried, be his spotter when the weight of the world rested on Dean's shoulders, it was purpose enough. "It's like riding a bike, isn't it?"

"What is?"

"Being my big brother again."

The good mood disappeared, the atmosphere tensed around them, and Sam felt a stirring in the air.

"Yeah."

Sam knew that look. There had been times John had left them alone for too long. Summer hunts, after Sam had shot up a foot when he was fifteen. Dean had filled out. They'd been young, isolated, horny. The heat and the sweat had made everything so hazy most of the time, their times together had felt like amazing dreams rather than reality.

And here they were. Adults now, the both of them. But instead of four years apart, it was almost fifteen. And Sam was still lanky. But Dean… Dean had filled out even more, been toughened by the world and the loss of his brother. Was this some send-off for Dean? Lucifer was going to kill him, Sam's body was going to step and crush Dean's windpipe, crack the spinal cord. So… here. One last hurrah while Sam still embodied that baby brother look—when had he started building up all of that muscle? Or when was he supposed to?

Sam stood up, walking over to Dean, who was sprawled in a chair; he stepped just shy of between his older brother's legs. It had been so long ago that they had called it quits. Sam had graduated high school a little later than his peers due to all the moving around and had wanted a cooling-off period before leaving for Stanford, not that Dean had known the truth of why Sam had kept turning him down. Plus, John had started taking Dean on more hunts and Sam had used the time to himself to provide research and send off his college applications and admissions essay.

They had talked after Sam had decided to saddle back up with Dean—they were older, they knew better, plenty of girls with whom Dean could spend a night. Would he and Dean slip up? Did he want to know if they had before the big schism or was this Dean in front of him hungry for something he hadn't had in 12 years?

It had been not quite four years for Sam; his body could still remember the way he'd stretched for Dean, that stretch he'd chased the first several months at Stanford. But then he'd met Jess and she was… fuck. How had he not seen that before? How alike she was to Dean: supportive, teasing, flirtatious, headstrong, cursed a blue streak but was still kind under it all. Had he actually managed to find a replacement for Dean without even trying?

"Heya, Sammy."

Dean's low timbre sent a shiver through Sam that brought him back to the present. His brother's hand cupped Sam's face, not strongly—to ground him, like earlier—but feather-light, a whisper of desire in the way Dean's callouses grazed him oh-so-gently. Who had he been trying to fool? There was no replacement for Dean. Not his voice that had Sam aching and desperate, not his touch that sent electrical currents throughout his nervous system, and not—

Sam surged forwards, needing to feel Dean's kiss again before he went crazy with want. Dean was on him in a fraction of a second, yanking Sam's clothes off while Sam fumbled his way through the buttons and buckles keeping him from Dean's skin. How many scars would Dean have now after eight years? Sam wanted to acquaint himself with each one of them, revisit the ones he was old friends with—the scratches on his shin from when an acheri had grabbed at Dean's leg, the slices up his forearms where he had needed to cut himself to prove his humanity, the faint white crosshatching on his back from when a ghost had pushed him across broken glass, the—

Sam's mind went blank when Dean nipped his jugular, a keening whine escaping his throat. Sam gently teethed at Dean's earlobe and was rewarded with a deep groan. Christ, Dean had gotten strong over the years.

"Get that freakishly tall body of yours on the bed… now!" Dean punctuated his command by slapping Sam's recently-bared ass. Sam stepped out of his jeans and boxers, leaving them on the floor with his shirt, and headed to the bed, eager for Dean to… fuck, do whatever.

Sam sat on the edge of the bed, legs and arms open to welcome Dean so their positions were reversed from before. Sam slipped Dean's outer shirt off and tossed it to the floor, tugging the undershirt up so he could lick up Dean's stomach, the sweaty musk practically emanating from his pores, drowning Sam. Maybe it was never the heat that had fogged his brain.

"Look at me, Sammy." Sam blinked to clear his head and glanced up at his brother. Dean threaded his fingers through Sam's hair, sweeping it off his face. "Mmm, my doe-eyed baby brother. You're a fucking wet dream, you know that?"

"So are you, all warm whisky and rogue mercenary. Fuck, Dean. I want you to wreck me."

"Suck." Dean had tugged his pants down and Sam gazed at where his brother hung low, rising steadily from the bloodrush of want and heat and need.

Sam spat on his hand and slid it along Dean's length, sucking the soft velvet skin of the head, licking the outside and underside as Dean firmed up in his grasp. Sam contorted his body to suck Dean's balls, tonguing them as Dean's musk assaulted his senses once again. After leaving the balls with a slurping kiss to each, Sam's back was grateful when he returned to a normal sitting position. Sam slid his ass a little further down so his mouth was more level. He licked the slit and sucked on the head, trying to work up more saliva.

He could spend hours just sucking Dean off—Christ, he had missed him, so fucking much. He was thick in Sam's hands, heavy on his tongue, the salty-sweet taste of Dean's pre-cum driving him crazy. Sam could feel his ass practically pulsing in anticipation of receiving all eight inches of his brother—eight and a quarter, according to Dean. Sam hummed in happiness, knowing the wait for both of them was finally over. Sam let Dean pop out of his mouth, kissing and nuzzling him at the base before turning his face to kiss at Dean's forearm.

There should be a scar there. Sam's hand stilled in its stroking as he glanced up to—Dean wasn't wearing a shirt anymore and Sam's eyes were glued on the large hand-print. That better be mine. He shook the thought from his mind. "You get grabbed by a fire monster or something?"

"Or something."

"You're missing some of your scars."

"Yeah, perks of angel healing, not that that lasted more than a few years."

Sam licked his hand, leaving a copious amount of spit on his palm before returning to slicking Dean up. "At least you still smell like you."

"You're welcome."

Sam grinned at Dean. Green eyes bored into him, pupils blown wide with lust; Sam let his body go loose so Dean could position him. Dean pushed Sam's legs up against his chest, holding them with his forearms as he mouthed at Sam's balls, rubbing a finger against Sam's perineum. Sam slipped a hand between his legs to stroke himself but Dean slapped it away, hitting not just his hand.

Sam wilted instinctively at the sharp pain, a breathy whimper escaping him. Despite the physical shrinking, he loved being at Dean's mercy, and now that there were so many more years between them… fuck, all that repressed rage and tension Sam knew Dean carried deep inside, he wanted it all. Wanted Dean to fuck him so hard into the mattress, they'd wind up breaking the bed frame. And still, Sam wanted Dean to use him, no matter the bruises or the concussions or the cuts.

"Oh, yeah. I want you mewling just like that for me, Sammy."

The last time Dean had spoken this way to Sam, his voice had been higher; now, it was worn rough from years of hunting, probably some celebratory cigars or cigarettes; maybe Dean was trying to emulate their dad's authoritative rasp. Sam's penis twitched at—Dean, Dean was sliding a finger gently into him. He latched onto that being the stimulation, pushing away all other thoughts but the ache in his thighs and ribs, the calloused palps rubbing the sensitive walls of his anus, pushing on his prostate, Dean tonguing his perineum from the outside, the scruffy bristles of his brother's beard burning and chafing touch-starved skin.

Sam had softened without direct stimulation but he trusted Dean knew how to play the rest of Sam's body like a fiddle to get him pliable. He looped his arms around his knees, helping hold his legs in place, trying to keep them spread. He stretched his fingers towards his nipples to just brush against them every so often.

That was it. Everything Sam wanted at the moment.

He wasn't sure how long Dean was going to keep him like this, and he didn't care. He was sore and aching; want and desire an eddy inside of him, the heat and sweat setting his body to a soft simmer.

"Fuck, Sammy, I've missed you." Dean eased up on Sam's thighs and Sam stretched them out and around, spreading for his brother, canting his hips up so Dean could continue opening him up. "Promise me if you… when you go back, start things up again? I never stopped wanting you."

Dean rubbed the pads of three fingers against that perfect spot inside his ass, keeping Sam at prostate over-stimulation hell. Sam watched from between his legs as Dean used one hand on himself, languidly priming it while his other hand just teased Sam's asshole. His eyes zeroed in on the pre-cum leaking from Dean's tip.

Sam moved himself off of Dean's hand until he was sucking Dean off once more, licking the tangy drops dribbling out. He kissed his way up his brother's torso, teething the hardened nipple for a moment before skipping the path straight to claiming Dean's mouth. How wrong was it that Sam had compared every sexual experience to the way his brother made him feel? How worse that Sam had found everyone else lacking?

"Dean, please, I need you inside of me."

Sam thought he heard his brother growl out a curse word, thought he heard that childish nickname again—Sam didn't mind it so much right now, with a Dean twelve years his senior staking his claim. Dean's hand pushed him back and Sam fell on the bed. He held his thighs to his chest as Dean settled above him, a momentary pause to line up and push inside…

No one could fill him up like Dean could. Some had been too long, or not long enough; too skinny or too thick or the angle wasn't right. Yeah, the perfunctory orgasm had happened, but with Dean, Sam was a live-wire. And the years on Dean at the moment only drove Sam crazier. Gone was the fumbling of their youth; there was desperation, desire, hunger, possessiveness—this Dean was ravenous and rough.

They'd barely started and already Sam wanted Dean to absolutely flay him raw; his ass burned at the stretch and the brutal pace Dean had set, his thighs ached, and he felt like he was weeping down there from the lack of attention. Yet Dean was doting on him everywhere else—pumping against his prostate, hands sliding between Sam's thighs and up his chest to rub and tweak his nipples, biting at his neck and always with the beard burn and that deep voice calling him "sweet Sammy" and "my good baby brother".

"Oh, fuck! Harder, Dean!" Sam groaned as Dean stilled.

"You want it harder?" The smile and raised eyebrow on Dean's face told Sam he was about to take that as a challenge.

Sam nodded, matching Dean's wolfish grin with his own needy one. "God, yes. Rip me apart and never fucking leave me."

Sam pulled Dean back down, close enough to kiss him. Dean allowed it for a while but then yanked Sam's hair and pulled his head back, baring Sam's throat. Teeth and scruff scraped against Sam's flesh, Dean holding Sam's throat with his other hand, pressure blocking Sam's airway.

He waited as long as he could before he got desperate for oxygen, his hand tugging Dean's away. While he was catching his breath, Dean was none-too-gentle in flipping Sam around on the bed, jerking his hips and ass out. Sam wriggled into a position slightly more comfortable while Dean mounted him from behind. Fuck yes!

A slight massage against Sam's scalp before Dean's fingers gripped his hair tight. The pain was sharp and unforgiving; the pleasure barely registered as Dean thrust into him once more. A strangled noise left him and he was rewarded with more pain as his brother locked him in position. Knees pinned the backs of his own and Dean's other hand wrenched Sam, flaccid and wilted, in a vise grip.

Dean buried Sam's face into the mattress, fucking him through the struggle when Sam finally attempted to buck the pressure off just enough to get his breath back. Over and over again. The pain was too much at times but Sam could take it, and Dean knew that, knew how much Sam craved being used and abused when submitting to his big brother. Harsh words and harsher hands. His back arched as Dean yanked him up by his hair, movements stilling as the two of them breathed together.

Sam chanced a whisper to break the silence. "Did you finish?"

"Not even close." Dean twisted Sam's face around, kissing him deeply. Sam melted into it, Dean hard inside of him, himself limp and angry. Dean trailed a hand down Sam's stomach, fingers ghosting along the happy trail as they made their languid journey further down. Sam felt himself practically jump into Dean's hand. "Let me."

Slowly, Dean lifted Sam's cock flush against him whilst and then pushed him flat down on his stomach until he was trapped, soft and helpless, by his own body. The pressure hurt where both his weight and Dean's bore him down into the mattress. Dean spread Sam's ass open and pushed in once again. The friction burn was going to be the death of him, but Sam couldn't get the air to tell Dean he wanted to stop, wasn't sure he even wanted to.

Sweat stung his eyes as his nerve endings everywhere felt fried. The backs of his knees would have bruises for weeks and his nipples chafed against the rough sheets. He was grateful for what little give the mattress had as Dean pumped into him, causing his body to jerk and rub his cock raw—too much weight on it. Fuck, it hurt. The second slap stung more than the first had, Dean's hand unrelenting on the tender flesh of Sam's ass.

Dean was speaking. Sam could hear the growling timbre even if he couldn't distinguish which words were being spoken. He couldn't even make out which words were spilling out of his own mouth, but he knew there was nothing in his mind but a screaming white noise.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been shaking and shivering, or when Dean had finally finished, but Sam shut down in the midst of agonisingly sweet torture and awoke to gentle massages and languid kisses. Dean's rough hands were feather-light and his gravelly voice a soothing whisper.

"So good for me, Sam. You were so good. I missed you so much. I can die happy right now."

Sam's brain snapped back at those words. "You're not dying, Dean."

"Sure I am. We both know it's not in me to kill you, even something that only looks like you."

"Then why…?"

"Because I have to at least try, right? Try to save the world? Not like I know how to do much else."

Sam twisted until he could kiss Dean, trying to put all his belief and optimism into the way he slid his tongue against his brother's. Dean returned the passion and started jerking Sam off. It hurt like hellfire after being ignored and abused for so long, but Sam let his body relax into taking it, praying he could finally find release. When, at last, his body tightened up, he emptied into his brother's hand with a strangled yell escaping him on every thrust, collapsing boneless into the mattress afterwards. Dean's spunk-covered fingers were on his lips and Sam opened his mouth to suck them clean.

"Good boy." Dean wrapped his arms around him, whispering words of praise. Feeling safer than he remembered being in the longest time, Sam let sleep take him.

A knock at the door roused him from his slumber. Getting dressed was an affair full of reminiscence as Sam picked up his scattered clothing, aches and bruises making themselves known as he made himself somewhat presentable. Another knock, still soft enough to seem like the person on the other side was patient—so no emergency. Sam walked over to open it, knowing it probably wasn't Dean knocking at the door to his own cabin. It hit him a fraction too late that someone might ask questions about the new guy, if they didn't recognize him as Dean's currently-possessed brother.

The guy smiled up at him. "I'm Chuck. One of Dean's friends."

"Hey, Chuck. Dean's not here right now."

"I know. I came here for you, Sam."

"Yeah?" Sam's hackles raised. What if someone had heard Dean and him, or found out somewhere? Would they try to kill him, thinking he was the other… him? Chuck slipped under the arm Sam was bracing against the door; Sam noticed the shiftiness in the stranger's movements. Chuck didn't seem to have a weapon on him, but Sam's eyes nevertheless drifted to the table with a few knives and pistol on it. Just in case.

"I brought you here for a reason."

Brought me here? "You? How? What are you?"

"Unimportant. It's over now, but I can't let you remember any of this. Too many spoilers'll mess up the show." Chuck smiled, the grin a little too wide, verging on the insane, and then brought his hand up.

Sam startled, wondering how quickly he could get to the table, but the last thing he saw and heard was the snap of Chuck's fingers.

Dean's hand was in front of his face, fingers snapping to get his attention. Sam opened his eyes, confused and a little disoriented. Impala, Dean's driving, shouting—

"—hell did you doze off? Get ready, we'll be at the cabin in a few minutes! Fucking hell, Sam."

Dean was angry, but Sam couldn't for the life of him remember falling asleep, or even being remotely tired. Cabin? The missing kids. The rawhead. They were on a hunt and he'd fallen asleep in the car! He could have understood if they'd been on a highway or frontage road with classic rock lulling him to sleep, but the Impala was pushing 55 on bumpy back trails. How the hell had he managed to go to sleep at all? Especially right before the business end of a hunt.

Hunting the rawhead was supposed to be routine and when Dean ordered Sam to get the children out of the basement, Sam thought that passing his brother the spare taser wouldn't turn into the disaster it had. The thought of Dean dying crushed him in way he couldn't pin down, like a bad dream he couldn't remember, a demented sense of déjà vu he couldn't shake. He stayed up for days researching everything he could until the hunter's network helped him pin down a faith healer whose next congressional would take place in Nebraska.

Whatever it took, he wasn't going to let his brother die. He'd pull Dean out of the metaphorical fire like Dean had pulled him out of the literal one… twice now. Ever since Sam was old enough, he could remember their Dad telling Dean to "watch out for Sammy". Sam had been able to return the favor, providing research and help ever since he could read. The two of them had kept an eye on each other, sometimes even both eyes; they'd stitched wounds and iced sprains, gone on steak runs for contusions and nicked liquor to dull the pain or help them sleep.

Taking care of each other was what they did. Dean had almost been sacrificed to a pagan deity the last time Sam had left him alone for a few days. They belonged by each other's side. They had to find a way to stick together because that was the only way through their hellish life. Sure, the trip to Nebraska had involved dealing with a reaper and the numbskull who'd bound it to her to do her bidding, but Dean was healed up, and Sam thought perhaps God had listened to his prayers, after all. Just this once. Maybe his presence wasn't a blight on Dean, maybe those summer nights a handful of years ago hadn't tainted him beyond redemption. Maybe this was proof both of them could be saved.

It wasn't a full-on miracle, but Sam hadn't given up the search—he'd found the faith healer, Dean had been chosen by Roy, and his brother was back to fighting fit. God helps those who help themselves. Sam recalled those words from somewhere, maybe Pastor Jim, maybe snippets of a service he'd attended at MemChu. And if God had put the pieces into place to save Dean, then Sam couldn't allow the want and desire to build up again. Dean was hooking up with plenty of women now, proof the two of them had just been too isolated, too aware of each other without the proper outlets. But they both knew better now; they'd gone down better paths.

Leaving more destruction in their wake.

Sam wasn't sure he'd ever get over losing Jess. But was it because losing her, especially the way he'd lost her, had tangled her up with his family. Being around Dean, thinking of her - she and Dean were plenty similar. And in his intro psych class research, he'd discovered people tended to choose romantic partners that reminded them of family members: safety, stability… familiarity. So the many comparisons began to make sense. The way she'd died—the same way John had told them about their mother's death. Losing her was like losing family all over again, only he wasn't a baby anymore—was that why it felt so visceral? Because it was like losing Dean.

Sam pushed that thought away, knowing he couldn't allow that to happen, knowing he'd taken steps already to ensure it wouldn't. Someone had died, yes, but that someone hadn't been Dean. And that was what mattered. It was selfish, but as much as Dean didn't want to do this job alone, Sam didn't either. And he was in it now; he'd wanted out once but the life had sucked him back in like the black hole it was.

Back to being a hunter. Back to the cramped quarters, the suffering gazes, the greasy food, the cheap motel rooms, the cheaper liquor. Back to self-triage, four hours' sleep, cross-country drives, research headaches, and risking their lives. Back to the lies and police evasion. Back to the hustling and credit card scams that let them pay for it all.

But he and Dean were older now. They couldn't let themselves go back to those millennium years—the summers alone when Sam was horny all the time and they'd been so comfortable naked around each other that one thing had led to another. It would have been a mistake if it had happened once. But it had happened for almost four years: sneaking around, sweaty—

No. God saved Dean because they'd stopped. They couldn't let themselves fall down that particular rabbit hole. Not again. No matter how grateful Sam was that Dean was healthy once more, he couldn't hold his brother and show him how much he needed Dean around. They'd kill for each other, die for each other, bring each other back no matter the cost (because they knew how and damn it, they saved enough people, they deserved to break the rules of life and death)—but loving each other? Loving each other was something they couldn't do.

Sam's head hit the pillow at three in the morning, and he woke two hours later to the sound of tempting words in his ear. I never stopped wanting you. Heady and gravelly, but unmistakeably Dean. Faint visions of an older Dean fucking him into a mattress. As the tepid water of a shower sluiced over him, Sam jerked off clinging to the fragments of his dream. Just a dream, Sam—it was all just a dream.